5. 4. 3. 2. 1.

It’s me and the cat and the soft red blanket of my bed. His warm body is curled to my left. His purring and the thrumming of his paws as they knead is a slow lullaby.

All electronics are off. No news stories. No urgent text messages. No to-do lists.

I roll to my side and close my eyes.

5 things I can hear. A car that passes by. Indecipherable shouts of play from the neighbor’s kids. The snap crackle pop of the heater. My breath. My heartbeat echoing between my ear and the pillow.

4 things I can feel. My crossed arms over my body, tight and tense. The warmth of my arms creases. My breath. The pillow fall and rise to meet my cheek.

3 things I can smell. My husbands cologne. The flannel sheets. My breath.

2 ….

I wake up to the urgency of my bladder. The cat is gone. A swift shuffle of the covers and I make my way to the bathroom.

Relief.

I return to bed.

5 things I can hear. A car passing by. A bird. Is that a bird? Birds still sing in all this mess? Do birds get cold? Birds can fly away. Wish I –

Oh. Bring my attention back to my body.

4 things I can feel. The dance of indigestion in my stomach. My right sock edging off my heel. The texture of flannel against my skin. My chest expand through a deep inhale.

3 things ….

I wake again to my husbands footsteps, soft and firm on the tile floor.

“Hi,” I say, sleep still in my mouth, on my eyes.

“Hi,” he says and wraps his body around mine. We sink into the mattress.

Its me, my husband and my soft red blanket.

“Lord,” I speak into the quiet stillness of my mind, “if this little voice of mine can do any good, if you would have it for a time such as this, I give it to you. May it be so.”